Swing Low: The Hangman Of The Woods

By Bc Crow

In a small rural community in war-torn Asia, people live in fear of poverty, sorcery, and wild creatures. Among these wild myths is a mysterious bloodthirsty killer known in most circles as The Hangman of the Woods.   Every child is warned not to venture into the woods. The witches and their equally hated rivals, the Believers, are known to

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue House Publishing
• Release date: Dec 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781943239085

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Author’s Note

A few years back, I experienced a particularly sleepy period of my life, a time when I received very little actual sleep. I will simply call this time First Child.

Up until then, I was a scheduled person. I would go to sleep every night at ten, and wake up every morning at six. My daughter was an angel. And, as I have learned, angels don’t sleep—not easily, at least. During this time of constantly disrupted sleep, my mind started confusing reality with my dreams. This made for some interesting stories that my wife still tells at family gatherings today. Since my waking world and my dream world were so intertwined, I found myself remembering the most incredible dreams in vivid detail.

These dreams sparked a whole notebook full of ideas that may play a major part in many of the novels that I plan to write in the future. Swing Low just happens to be among those dreams that to this day remain vivid in my mind. I watched most of this story play out in one evening, and I knew that I had to write it down.

While this book may seem a little different from many books you’ve read, at least you now know where the inspiration for it came from. I don’t care about sticking to a specific genre like many other authors do; I really just write what intrigues me at any given time. Despite however many books I’ve written, or am currently writing, I’ll never fail to write that which excites me the most.

To me, writing is a hobby, a craft which I am constantly trying to improve upon with each new novel. If you choose to pick up my books, I hope you find them entertaining and unique. In this book, I’ve included much of what I dreamed, but expanded it a little, also. This story takes place in southern Asia, but not in any real country or on any specific landmass. I’ve made up a territory that exists somewhere between Laos and Singapore.

The timing is meant to be in the very near future, perhaps sometime between now (2017) and the middle of the 21st century. While some references to religions and countries or races are mentioned, none are meant to be criticisms. They are just part of an imaginary world that existed one night in this head of mine.

I hope you enjoy Swing Low: The Hangman of the Woods. Feel free to check out my other books. You can find them on my website www.BlueHPublishing.com or you can visit your bookstore of choice. Like I’ve said, my stories don’t all fall in the same genre; thus, you’re not reading the same story over with different, albeit predictable, characters or plots. At least I hope that every story I tell is a new experience and a great diversion.

Sincerely,

B. C. Crow

Prologue

My name is Iddo. I am short and fat. If I’d been born in America, this might not be so bad, that is to say, the fat part of me. While most Americans seem fat, some even more so than myself, they’re all much taller than an average person here. I, unfortunately, am short, even when compared to the people in my own region. Even so, there are many days when I wish I’d been born to that country of plenty. But if not the United States, then even Europe might have sufficed. Alas no, I live in one of many war-torn areas that sit between China and Australia.

This southern end of Asia, still suffering from the effects of the most recent wars, was governed by no less than four powers, as far as I can see things, though it seems incredibly jumbled. China was the closest and most obvious influence, even though they didn’t escape fully unscathed by the war, about which tensions remain high. The second most prevalent influence on the region was the local government, which is ruled by none other than the sons of our own land. Criminals now, at least of bureaucracy. I don’t know what they were like before.

Blessedly, in the last year, things have been improving. Considering recent events, it’s no wonder.

The last two influences, at least at the time, were minor in the actual governing of affairs, but had a significant influence on day-to-day life. After all, the Europeans and Americans seldom encourage anything but the spread of their Western culture. This is accomplished primarily by language.

Everyone I know speaks at least four languages, while the Europeans speak two, maybe three. Americans seldom speak more than one. For this reason, English has slowly become the national language, that is, if we are to call ourselves a nation. While we have bodies acting as governing officials, we are basically without law and true country. Like the Mong, who sing the meow of the stray cat sonnet, we too are seeking blindly that sense of belonging where nobody can stand together.

This is a tale, a true tale that starts with me. My intention, however, is not to tell of my experience, nor that of our ragged region. This is about a strange man, more hideous in appearance than myself. But since I cannot tell of him without including something of my own part in the matter, I hope that you will patiently humor me.

A major portion of this happened a couple of years ago. Because of this, my memory may have faded somewhat. Still, these are my true feelings and the memories are as I do and wish to remember them. With any luck my story will be retold, lasting longer than the hapless prophet of old, whose name I bear. As I write this down, I would that my book not suffer the same fate as the lost scripture of that seer of antiquity. Of course, I’d have to publish it if I hoped to have any chance of it surviving. I don’t know if anybody would even read this. I write it anyway, that I may bear witness, proving my efforts with the gifts He entrusted to me. After all, as the Believers say, the records we make here on Earth will be used to help judge us in heaven.

Thanks in part to Western influence, though we’re still a disorganized people, the schooling system hasn’t decayed like the rest of society. In fact, it has improved. If you ask me, this is how the Caucasians hope to eventually stabilize our land. Unfortunately, even the best schemes of man find ways to go astray. The meandering path which I originally found myself on, was the very path most encouraged by my father. To save you the doldrums of my whole life history, I’ll begin when I was fifteen years old.

Chapter 1

School. What a circus of emotions and self-doubt. Where did the other boys find the confidence to stand out? I’ve spent my whole life trying to just fit in. Peer pressure has always pushed against my self-identity. I’ve come to learn that in this I might not have been alone, even if I was a complete loner. Friends would’ve been nice, but I didn’t know the first thing about finding them. For a while I tried to shut out that chapter of my life. I resurrect it now, because it serves a need. Exposing my naked shame has become less burdensome. Sometimes a story is bigger than one’s self. And one must bear that burden and its disgrace openly for the greater good. In truth, as I look back, my journey gave me a unique perspective. Sometimes I was just one of the crowd, other times I was the odd one. I had my own choices, but none were easy. Following the crowd meant betraying myself. Following my own will meant parting from socially accepted patterns. Perspective is something that should be treasured, so I am grateful for my humbling experiences.

I feel that my journey started just a few years ago. The particular day I think most of is so vivid in my mind, not just because it happened the day after I resolved to enjoy journalism, but because of an epiphany that I experienced. It was the start of much soul searching and questioning that has directed my thinking over the last few years.

Hey buddy, a kid named Akamu yelled out. I turned, nervous and reserved. Now would be a bad time to trip on the war-torn cobble walkway. Akamu was in my class, but among the more popular of students. Having learned to be cautious, I opened my expression to one of accepting, but also not committing to the salutation. As Akamu ran up to me, my face remained passive. Inside though, little butterflies of hope tried to raise my hand in greeting. My emotional safety measure worked yet again. Instead of stopping to acknowledge me, Akamu rushed past as indifferent to my presence as I was to the many stray dogs that I too had ignorantly passed this morning.

I don’t remember the other boy’s name, but I do remember that he was new to the program. He’d transferred to grammar from computer science school last month. This transferring between programs is not uncommon, but after the first year of vocational preparatory schooling, the effort to catch up in the new field of study becomes much more difficult. What I do remember of this boy is that he was not the handsome kid that Akamu was and that I hated him. Okay, well, maybe hate is a little harsh, since I’m generally not inclined to harbor harsh feelings toward anyone, but I was jealous of him. Within only one month, the newbie was able to reach a level of esteem among the students that I’d been unable to accomplish in the whole year.

As many men know, fifteen is an awkward age for a boy. Maybe I’m overgeneralizing. Some, like Akamu, seem to trudge through this pubescent stage of life with enough confidence to betray their own misgivings.

Not me.

If the physical arrangements of this age weren’t bad enough, the mental deficiencies are enough to vex the smartest of boys. I think everyone at this age is living in a muggy mental fog.

After Akamu passed, I fixed my eyes on his back. I wondered, if I did move to the pre-medical school of biology, would the fresh start be enough to propel me into the higher echelons of adolescent admiration? This fascination took root in my daydreaming as I continued my walk to school. All the while Akamu and his friend could be heard laughing in front of me, at least until we joined other students and were funneled into the school building. Good thing their faces were directed away from mine. Mine was blotching red with embarrassment. I don’t know if their jokes were directed toward me. They probably weren’t, but it sure felt like it. I hated being the timid loner.

Large green trees and shrubs had grown back, but still couldn’t hide the drab after effects of the war. The school buildings were among the exceptions with colorful facades decorating the neighborhood. The exterior of each prep school radiated an atmosphere indicative of its study. The grammar school was bright and colorful: reds, yellows, oranges, all mixed with tie-dye patterns, cleverly insinuating the need for creativity. How else could a future journalist write such a convincingly vibrant lie for the powers that would soon pay their wages? The facades that displayed uniformed walls of reds and blues belonged to the two pre-med schools just two buildings down. Separating our field of study and theirs was the engineering school, a crisp gray-and-blue facade suggesting the need for strenuous mental focus. Along this whole street, various other schools were arranged, either connected to another building, sharing a building, or in some cases for the larger ones like business and manufacturing, standing alone.

Inside they all looked the same. If the colorful exteriors helped portray a high enthusiasm for academics, the dull beige interior was enough to transform any exuberance into melancholic submission. There were two main classes each day, the first of which I was walking into and finding my seat. The subject of both classes varied from day to day, with the first class usually dedicated to general topics that would be studied regardless of the school, leaving the second class for more-specialized training. Most days I would sit down a few minutes before Krystal. She was one of the few Caucasian kids I knew. I’m pretty sure she was from the United States, and it seemed odd to me that she’d end up here. While I don’t know much about American culture, I had to guess that she was annoying there, as well.

Krystal, like most Americans, was a little on the heavy side. Her thick stumps for legs climbed into a milky sausage trunk before ascending into a perfectly rounded face. Taller and more developed than most girls her age, she boasted with every artificially fruit-scented pore of her body. Her hair was always done up so perfect and massive that the kids sitting behind her had to lean into the aisle to follow the instructor’s lessons.

She wore more makeup in a day than my mother put on in a year. She must have had dry skin, too. This made little sense to me, since the climate here is so humid to begin with. Still, she almost always could be seen rubbing some fruity lotion onto some part of her body. Not even the expensive clothing she donned each day could compare with the one ornament she favored most. It wasn’t something that could be seen, but definitely heard. Her prized possession was her voice.

Never before have I known anyone who loved to talk as much as she did. She always had an answer or question for the teacher, even if it was ridiculous. Her brimming self-confidence persuaded her to volunteer that voice of hers for any and every musical expression of talent, whenever the opportunity arose. Finally and most unfortunate for me, I was the one boy in the class she pitied enough to befriend.

Hey Iddo, she often began. How are you doing?

Generally, before I could respond, she went into something more self-serving, like on this particular day when she mentioned, "Oh hey, did you know that I tried out for the multi-school play this quarter? They’re doing The Wizard of Oz, that’s an American musical, and I’m hoping to get the main part of Dorothy. Of course I already know every song in the show, so it would only make sense for me to get the part."

Not being completely oblivious to American cinema, I did know, and had seen the movie version once before. If I could have responded, I would’ve mentioned that Dorothy wasn’t the part I’d like to see her play, but the character of Glinda the Good Witch. The reason for the witch was because she had a much smaller talking role but was more elegantly adorned. Krystal and her natural pomp would never do as Dorothy because Krystal was the least humble-looking person the director could cast. I should know something of this, because, due to the poverty in this part of the world, humble-looking people were abundant. I was unable to convey my opinion to Krystal, as the instructor had scratched the outline of his lesson onto the chalkboard to begin the class.

The irony of comparing Krystal to a witch at the beginning of the day only compounded the experience I had during my lunch break. Like usual, I kept my head down and tried not to attract any attention. After having eaten my lonely meal, I endeavored to leave the cafeteria before Krystal finished hers and made a show of recognizing my singularity. I don’t know if her intentions were usually meant to cheer me up, or if they were more an attempt to make herself look compassionate. In either case, the times she did catch me, it was usually to my social detriment.

Hiding from social interaction was depressing in its own way. But if I was going to feel like a loser, I might as well do it on my own terms. After making my way to the restroom, I locked myself in one of the stalls. I only had to urinate, but due to my self-consciousness, I wouldn’t have been able to perform in the shared trough.

As I concluded my business, a group of five or six boys entered the room. From their voices, I knew them to be the sort that I shouldn’t find myself alone with. Thus far I’d managed to avoid a situation with them, but I’d heard of others who weren’t so lucky. So, pretending that my business wasn’t complete, I stood on the toilet to wait for their departure. What I witnessed with my ears and to a small degree my eyes, for the cracks in the stalls did permit a little spying, I would never forget.

On the boys’ agenda was an experiment in the black arts of witchcraft. I’d often heard of this practice, and my parents warned me of neighborhoods to avoid for that reason. But this was the first time I’d experienced with my own senses the abominable practice.

I learned this from my cousin’s dentist, Kelii bragged. Kelii, being the chief among the miscreants, went on to explain, Yeah, he took me to this witch doc, and I brought my dad’s phone with me to record what he said. The crazy quack must’ve been a hundred years old, but he said this chant with his hands on my head. Then with his bare fingers, man, he just pulled out my wisdom teeth—didn’t even hurt.

No way! at least two of Kelii’s friends said, not disbelieving, but rather in excitement.

Whether Kelii had transcribed the chant, or if it was by memorization, the boys began their ritual with Kelii acting the part of dark priest. After having all but one person link arms in a circle around a boy, Kelii placed his hands on the kid’s head and repeated the spell that would bring strength to his fingers and numbness to the patient. Having made an end to speaking, he pierced his comrade’s tongue with a cheap stud. With excited, albeit distorted, praise, the newly adorned friend exclaimed, Thweet, dood. Di’in eben hurt a-aull!

Two others asked to have the task administered to them, one of them chickening out when his turn came. The other had his tongue pierced with a similar result. During the entire ceremony, I couldn’t help but feel what can only be described as a muddle of thought. My body felt as if it was being wrapped in a thick blanket of darkness. Not cold darkness, but hot clammy darkness. It made me shiver with claustrophobic discomfort. The Devil. It could only be the evil master of sorcery himself. In that darkness, I received my most disturbing epiphany ever.

If there was a Devil, and if he truly was capable of giving such powers to those who call on his nature, shouldn’t this son of perdition have his opposite? Shouldn’t there also be a God? Usually people are brought to believe in God by feeling good or guilty. For me the seeds were planted in my mind by that enemy of light. Everything I’d ever believed, or rather disbelieved, came into question.

Despite my experience, what followed later that afternoon would overshadow my morning epiphany. My questions about God would ebb over the next few days as I redirected my focus. Funny how inaction can dull the most powerful of epiphanies.

For the time, as I shifted in my hard wooden seat, my thoughts continued churning throughout the second-period class discussion. I just couldn’t shake the memory of those piercings. I wasn’t completely distracted from the lecture. How I paid any attention was a miracle. Master Haimi, the teacher of second period, was discussing political events. She mainly referenced the growing crime rate. Her lecture touched on the roving bands of marauders that plagued the region.

These mercenaries are like pirates of the land, pillaging and taking advantage of anyone they can plunder. Most of them, with exception of the youngest bands, are rarely punished. Even if they’re caught, the sentence is only severe enough to give the appearance of justice. With few exceptions, the judges are as much invested in the marauding as the troublemakers, receiving bribes, gifts, and services from them.

Like a weapon without a cause, these remnants of the war contribute to the corrupt nature of our government. Since they’re often employed by corrupt political figures and since we journalists-in-training would likely be helping with some of their propaganda, we needed to learn how to get on with them. Still, they weren’t the most dangerous people we had to worry about. Usually they just rough you up and move you on your way. They don’t care about politics. As long as they get paid and have their fun, the rest of the world could be swallowed into the earth.

According to Master Haimi, the real force to be reckoned with, when discussing politics, was the Believers. Those of us considered common pagans were the prime target for these religious enthusiasts. They wanted power. Rumor was, they had it too. At least they had it over nature. They still wanted political power, but their numbers were still too few. This also was something they were trying to correct. They wanted their celestial law to be common law. Master Haimi related how these Believers had once visited her.

"You’d better read up on these fellows, or you’ll never be able to stand up to them. They come at you so meek and unassuming. But when they speak, their words stab at your bones. They leave scars that tear at you long after they leave. They aren’t friendly toward the witches, but that’s probably because the witches know all their tricks. Once you become a Believer, they have you for life. Only a few have ever escaped their spell. Those who do can never bring themselves to believe in anything, let alone God, ever again."

There it was again. God. I sat in my chair, chin resting on my desk. Master Haimi’s voice droned on while I drifted into my own foggy world, trying to make sense of it all. There was a conflict happening. The Devil had never seemed so unassuming, but now I knew He had to be real. God had never seemed important, but shouldn’t evil have its opposite? And if the god of the Believers was really the Devil . . .

Iddo!

I jumped in my chair, smacking my knees hard on the bottom of the desk. Laughter rippled around the classroom.

Iddo, I asked you a question. Were you not paying attention?

I pulled at my shirt. The back of my wooden chair had used my own sweat to plaster the shirt to my back. The breeze that often came through the open windows rarely cooled the un-conditioned air of the classroom. Yes, Master Haimi, I just—

The bell rang. My breath caught for an instant. I let it out with a sigh of relief. Master Haimi was waving her arms frantically, trying to settle the class down while she finished her interrogation. We’d all been sitting still for the last two hours without stretching. She lost the battle as kids ignored her and rushed to the door. I wove in and out between the other students, my book bag slapping against everyone’s legs. Amid their annoyed protests, I was able to lose myself in the crowd before she could grab me by the ear and humiliate me even further. I had no doubt that she’d remember to pick on me first thing tomorrow, but by then I’d be in a better frame of mind to answer her.

There was one thing worse than being scolded by Master Haimi. That thing was waiting for me at my locker. I debated turning around and letting the master have her run at me, but I had little doubt that fate would be so kind. This threat at my locker would wait for me. It always did.

Chapter 2

We live in a unique time. Our pocket in this world seems like it is cluttered with lint. The only thing to be done is to pull that pocket inside out and shake it clean. Just like my dilemma of trying to fit in, shaking one’s life clean would require a great deal of discomfort for most people. I don’t think I could have always done it. But I’ve never been the boldest of my peers.

Like me, I think most teenagers use their peers as a measure of their self-worth. I don’t know why I struggled so much then. No doubt confrontation, rejection, and self-doubt all contributed to my placid demeanor. Many of the other boys and girls had a sense of purpose or ambition that aided them. I didn’t really understand them, or belong. I’ve often wondered, would I’ve had more friends if only my father had allowed me to follow the profession of my heart. I wanted to be a doctor, but they don’t make any real money around here. They just get sick more often.

So I found myself at the mercy of the only friend I had in the whole school, but to be her friend came at the cost of my self-respect. I’d have rather had no friends. But now, looking back, I wonder if I couldn’t have been better to her. Maybe I could’ve done something for her. Often, we look back on our past and see our experiences through the microscope of wisdom. In moments of reflection, most people, despite regrets, feel they wouldn’t change a thing. I know this as well as anybody. I feel the same way. However, if you did go back, isn’t there at least something you’d want to change?

Krystal was leaning against my locker, pinning the flimsy yellow clanker shut. Her pink lips, too big and moist for human lips, reminded me of a peeled pomelo. I took a deep breath and dragged my feet across the hall to my locker. As I reached out to open the short metal cabinet, Krystal’s lips parted. Her tongue graced the top of her front teeth as if they needed wetting before her proud and relentless voice threatened to dry them out.

How was your class? she started, but, as usual, she didn’t wait for my reply. Same as usual, I bet. By the way, I checked to see if the theater director chose her cast yet, but she hasn’t. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out. So did Master Haimi give you much homework? I didn’t get any from my teacher.

I had an above-average command of the English language, probably better than Krystal. Being born to it, she’d opted out of her language classes last year and was now ahead of me in the curriculum. Since Master Haimi had been her teacher last quarter, Krystal rarely failed to recap where she supposed I was in my lectures. This brought her some degree of pride. She had a great memory, but liked to flaunt it. I always felt belittled by her approach.

I’m guessing she’s started in on her whole political society lectures now, am I right?

I could barely nod before she blurted, Don’t worry, the assignments will be easy enough. At least I had no problem. Of course, not everyone in the class aced them, but I found them to be so common sense. If you have any questions, you should ask me.

As quickly as possible, I replaced my textbook and grabbed a folder from my morning class. Even though I gently closed the locker door, when the latch caught, the whole thing rattled. Please let Krystal have somewhere else to go, I hoped.

Good news—I can walk home with you today.

My shoulders sank. Here we go again.

There was one nice thing about walking home with her. Since she was